


let the voices slip away

by yuchi



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, i know what i'm about, not explicit but referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuchi/pseuds/yuchi
Summary: Mark supposes he cannot blame the women flocking around Lucas; the prospect of marrying a viscount is very enticing, indeed. He just wishes it weren'tthisparticular viscount.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 26
Kudos: 137





	let the voices slip away

**Author's Note:**

> so as a sucker for period romance, please have this. if you are familiar with the genre, i hope you get the vibe i was going for! 
> 
> the title is from slip away by perfume genius. hope you enjoy yourself <3

The ballroom of Fletcher Hall is done up in a way Mark has never seen before: floral arrangements suspended from the high ceiling, their sweet scent filling the ballroom along with the light from what seems to be a thousand candles scattered absolutely everywhere, from the buffet table to the small dais upon which the string quartet is performing. The efforts of the duke—or more likely, the duchess—are not in vain, for they have resulted in delighted guests, happily twirling themselves along on the dance floor or gossiping from the side-lines.

It is a pity that Mark cannot truly enjoy the festivities. The duke himself had sent the invitation; soon as he arrived from his week-long visit to his uncle’s estate, his steward had accosted him with an envelope, relaying news of the ball to be held later that night. Never-mind the four-hour carriage ride—his manners would not allow him to refuse such an old friend of the family, and besides, Jeno had begged for him to come so that he may be the chaperone in his hawk-eyed mother's stead.

And so here he finds himself, once again a wallflower, a tall glass of whiskey in hand; much stronger than his preferred wine, but much needed. To be sure, the young ladies and their mothers had busied themselves with him prior to the program—he had claimed fatigue from the long journey, and as it stands, his name is on no dance cards tonight. Just as he contrived.

The music swells to a crescendo, and Mark watches as the young men lift the young ladies by the waist, setting them down with a laugh. His eyes roam over the ballroom until he spots a familiar crimson coat—the Viscount Wong, grinning widely as he dances with a lovely young woman in a blue frock. Featherbrooke, he believes, the daughter of the local milliner.

Inwardly, Mark scoffs; of course, the milliner thinks his daughter has a chance with _him,_ of all people. Current attachment to someone else notwithstanding.

“Must you torture yourself so?”

He turns his head at the familiar sound of his brother's voice. “Whatever do you mean?” he asks, feigning indifference.

“You could enjoy the evening if you wanted, you know,” Jeno chastises gently, taking up the space beside him to better survey the crowd. “You may have a dance in you yet.”

“I do not think I do,” Mark replies, once more distracted by that red coat, Lucas’s smile almost radiant as he dances with the young lady in his arms, her waist almost miniscule under his hand. Even he must admit that they make a handsome pair—her dress contrasts prettily with her yellow hair, even more with Lucas’s coat.

“... Mark? Mark,” Jeno is calling. "Dear brother, where on earth can your mind be wandering off to—"

Much to his chagrin, Jeno catches his gaze, watching Lucas laugh at whatever charming Miss Featherbrooke just said. His brother leans closer so as not to be heard by the passers-by. “The young lady looks quite taken with Lord Wong.”

“As is every other eligible young lady in this ballroom, I would presume,” Mark replies coolly. “What a sad picture we make. Two young bachelors standing alone.”

“Only yourself to blame for that, brother,” Jeno mutters, snatching the drink from his fingers and taking a long sip. “You've driven them all away. I do believe I have never seen you in such a foul mood—although I need not wonder why…”

“And you, brother?” Mark turns to Jeno with a tight smile. “Are you not dancing?”

Jeno scoffs, taking another swig from the glass and pushing it back into Mark's grasp. “Nobody's hankering to waltz with a second son. Fortune favours the first-borns.”

“Fortunes fall to the first-borns, unfortunately,” Mark sighs. “Come now, Jeno—dance, or the mamas will talk and Mother will have both our heads.”

“I should say the same to you!” Jeno counters indignantly. “You’ve danced only once and with our _cousin._ That is hardly anything.”

“Well, it is something more than what _you_ have done, which is nothing. Ask Miss Featherbrooke, if it pleases you.”

“It does not,” Jeno answers primly. “But I shall do it for you, brother. If that's what it takes to get the good viscount out of her clutches.”

“Jeno.”

“I know,” Jeno sighs. “I shall not speak of it. I look forward to seeing you on the dance floor... or not.”

As soon as the music finishes, Jeno gallantly pries Miss Featherbrooke from Lucas's arm, an act which the young lady looks uncertain whether to be pleased or displeased at. No sooner than Jeno steps into Lucas’s place than a host of young women accost him, all demurely fanning themselves and making sure to display the cards hanging from their gloved wrists.

Mark supposes he cannot blame them; the prospect of marrying a viscount is very enticing, indeed. He just wishes it weren't _this_ particular viscount.

He finishes the last of his drink, watching Lucas try his best to smile while his eyes roam frantically in search of an escape. The young lord grins widely when he spots Mark, mumbling excuses and pushing his way through the gaggle of people surrounding him to join Mark at the far end of the ballroom.

“Lee,” he exclaims giddily. "What a surprise. I thought you had arrived in town just this afternoon."

“How could I refuse an invitation so graciously extended to me by the duke himself?” Mark answers simply, setting his glass down on a passing waiter's tray. “I see you have been enjoying yourself in my absence, my lord.”

Lucas’s eyes soften somewhat, stepping closer to him so they're almost nose to nose. “You do know I have a fondness for dancing.”

“And attention,” Mark huffs.

He leans down. “Only of the most particular sort,” Lucas whispers next to his ear.

Mark swallows, taking one step back. “Might I entice you for a smoke, my lord?” he asks, gesturing to the balcony doors.

“The smoke is the least enticing part of this conversation, Lee, I assure you.”

Blushing madly, Mark allows Lucas to trail after him out onto the balcony.

The frigid night air is sobering somewhat, both from the alcohol and Lucas’s close proximity. Leaning over the railing, he can observe lamplighters scurrying to put oil in the lamps lining the garden walkway, so that the young lovers taking that path have no more privacy than what is appropriate.

“Do you still need that smoke?” comes the teasing jest behind him.

Mark whirls around, turning to Lucas with a frown. “Why must you vex me so?” he says, exasperated.

“It's rather entertaining to see you so flustered, I must say,” Lucas returns with a smirk and a flippant shrug.

“Incorrigible,” Mark mutters, crossing his arms in consternation. “You cannot be so transparent about your... affections. It is unseemly.”

Lucas raises a brow, staring him down. Mark knows a dare when he sees one. “I know that, which is exactly why I was on the dance floor so many times this evening.”

It is a perfectly reasonable explanation—an explanation that does not even need utterance, so the jealousy churning in Mark’s stomach is more than unwanted. Yet it is there. "I hope you were enjoying yourself, playing all of these beautiful young ladies for fools,” he finds himself saying bitterly.

Lucas, ever the saint, only smiles. “I am the greatest fool of all, worry not.”

Beyond the balcony doors, the music from the quartet is muted, distant; the balcony itself is dim, unlit. No longer able to ignore the charged air between them, Lucas pulls him to a corner of the balcony no one from the inside will be able to see. Mark follows without complaint, letting himself be pushed against the vine-covered wall and kissed slowly, languorously. He responds with fervour, threading his fingers through Lucas’s hair and pulling him closer until their bodies are flush and he can feel every desperate breath that shudders through Lucas’s chest.

“I have missed you,” he says in between heated kisses.

Mark laughs. “It has only been a week.”

“The longest week of my life.” Pulling his collar aside, Lucas dips his head down to press kisses along the column of his throat. “I could not wait until your return. Not a day passed when I did not think of you.”

He speaks prettily, Mark will give him that. What rouses him more, however, is that the same held true for him—a week without Lucas was not the longest they had gone without each other, and yet Mark awoke and went to sleep with only one thought to spare, and that is for the man who is now scraping his teeth against Mark’s skin.

“I think—I think that's quite enough,” Mark says breathlessly, prying the taller man off his neck. Lucas doesn't relinquish his hold on Mark's waist, however, instead holding him there, pinning him down with his gaze.

They both wait for their breaths to slow, for smiles to spread across their faces. Being held like this after a week of separation, Mark finally feels that he has been welcomed home. He tugs Lucas down for another kiss—this one softer, more affection than passion. It warms him.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look very handsome tonight?” Lucas murmurs.

“Yes, by a great number of eager mamas and their daughters,” Mark answers with a slight smile. “But not from the person whose eye truly matters.”

“Had I known you arrived, I would have danced with you instead.”

“Come off it, you know it will never happen given my absence of a sizable dowry. Or a sizable chest.”

Lucas smiles at that, trailing his burning gaze down Mark’s features. “I assure you, sir, that my eyes are elsewhere.”

The young lord looks upon him with such tender, unconcealed adoration that Mark never knew how to bear the weight of. He settles for brushing his fingers down Lucas’s cheek, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth that he seems pleased with.

“Are you tired from your trip?” Lucas asks softly.

“I shall manage.”

“Your eyes tell a different story. Would you like to go home?”

To Lawrence Manor, he means. _His_ home, not Mark’s. “Quit in the middle of a ball, and so soon after my arrival?” he protests with raised brow. “What would people say?”

“You know the servants will never say anything. They adore you.”

“Only because they adore their young master. We must not risk it.”

Lucas nods in understanding, although his disappointment is clear. “Another time, then, my dear.”

The regret on Lucas’s face almost makes him reconsider the tempting offer. He cannot think of anything he would like more than to lounge about in Lucas’s rooms all day, somehow even more familiar to him than his own chambers in Clarke House from all the nights he had spent there in Lucas’s arms. The servants would not say a word, that is true—they had changed since they were children, but they adored Lucas same as the help that actually grew up with him.

Lucas is surrounded with so much love, it’s a wonder that he’s not positively bursting with it. Perhaps that is why he has shown Mark nothing less than complete and utter devotion.

“I am sorry for my behaviour,” he begins quietly. “You need not prove your attachment to me.”

“I am not sorry for it,” Lucas declares. “I admit that I rather like seeing you jealous.”

Mark boxes him lightly on the arm. “Oh, you—”

Lucas laughs, grasping him by the arm to prevent any more light-hearted violence. “There is nothing to envy,” he says with utmost sincerity. “In my eyes, your beauty eclipses all others.”

He can feel heat spread across his face despite himself. “You must not say such things, my lord,” Mark sighs.

“When have you ever known me to be untruthful?”

Perhaps he truly is tired from the carriage ride, or overwhelmed from the events of the evening, because he sighs once again, looking up at Lucas with wide eyes. “Have we not always been, ever since this started?”

Lucas shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you not tire of our duplicity?” Mark asks quietly. “Our concealment?”

“So long as it allows me to be with you, it does not.” At the sight of Mark’s deepened frown, Lucas takes both hands into his. “Tell me what troubles you, my dear.”

“You know precisely what troubles me, my lord.” Mark tightens his grip on Lucas’s hands, imploring him to see reason. “As the eldest in my family, I have a duty I must fulfil. As do you. I do not know how long I can go on pretending like nothing is between us—hiding from our family and friends, unable to breathe as freely as I would like. _That_ is why I am tired.”

Lucas simply nods, smoothing a stray hair away from Mark’s forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Mark can see this to be true—not that he could ever doubt Lucas’s honesty in such matters. “I did not know that this arrangement was so... taxing.”

“It is,” Mark agrees. “Yet I cannot bear to pull myself away.”

“What a relief, then. Whatever shall I do without you?”

“Marry,” Mark answers immediately, to which Lucas rolls his eyes. “Live in your beautiful home with your loving wife. Perhaps a family.”

“I will not have a home without you in it,” Lucas protests.

“You must acquit yourself of such delusions, Lucas, and sooner rather than later.”

“What are you trying to say? That you want to end our arrangement?” Lucas questions, hurt and betrayal evident in his voice—and, in some strange way, acceptance. As though he had long been anticipating Mark to do as he says.

Despite everything he’s said this evening, panic bubbles up in Mark’s chest. “Not that!” he refutes hastily, reaching up to wrap his arms around Lucas’s shoulders. “It's just… thinking of these things, thinking that we have a future together, it's dangerous. We both know it's an impossibility.” He strokes at the nape of his lover’s neck, and Lucas shivers. “Although I must admit, I cannot determine which one of us is more cruel for letting this go on as long as it has.”

“Only because we both know it to be real.” Lucas’s hands settle on his waist, the weight of them welcome and familiar. The young lord looks straight into his eyes, and Mark finds himself enraptured once again. “We both see loveless marriages all around us. What we have… it is something they cannot fathom.” Lucas drops a careful kiss on his forehead. “Neither of us are in a rush to marry. Until then, humour me. Stay with me. Let us live as we already do.”

“Lucas…”

“I have business in London within the next fortnight,” he continues. “I'm sure you can fabricate some excuse for your estate as well. We can stay in Lawrence House—we are lifelong friends, and no one will think it improper. It will be our own little piece of paradise.”

“Only for however long this 'business' shall take us,” Mark points out.

Lucas smiles, moving closer until Mark has no choice but to tilt his head up to not break their gaze. “Until that day comes, we are free to be what we truly are: happily and perfectly in love.”

Already he feels his resolve crumbling. They are an impossibility, he said so himself—he is well aware that the longer this attachment drags on, the more difficult it will be to pull them apart. And yet he cannot stop himself from wanting this beautiful man before him, who has been an incomparable friend and an even more attentive lover; who, since they were just schoolboys, knows him better than any other person.

Mark takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the terrible decision that he's about to make. Is it so terrible, anyway, to grant Lucas this one little wish?

“I never could deny you anything,” Mark concedes.

A smile of triumph spreads across Lucas’s face. He takes Mark’s hands in his once again, bringing them up to his mouth so that he may kiss his knuckles. “And for that, I am thankful. We have time, do we not?” he asks. “We must make the most of it.”

His hypocrisy knows no bounds, it seems. “Yes. Yes, I will go to London with you.”

No sooner than he finishes his sentence, Lucas is bending down to kiss him once again. Unable to resist, Mark winds his arms around Lucas’s neck, pulling him closer in desperation. Lucas is only too happy to oblige. _This shall be the last,_ he thinks. _Until then..._

They break away with heaving breaths, smiling at one another like the lovestruck idiots that they are. Mark aligns his palm with Lucas’s cheek, wishing that he could somehow capture this moment of perfect happiness. He’ll have to bring his sketchbook and charcoals with him to London; if he is to truly keep his promise to himself, he will need every piece of Lucas that he can covet.

“You will enjoy yourself in London, I am sure,” Lucas begins hesitantly, taking note of the apprehension on his face. “Think of the opera—and the shops in Mayfair. All the books you can fill your library with.”

Mark smiles up at him in reassurance, stroking a thumb along Lucas’s cheekbone. “Of course, I will enjoy myself,” he laughs. “I shall have you by my side.”

“Thank you,” Lucas whispers, dropping his head down so their foreheads can touch. “For indulging me.”

“I have become weak to your every whim and fancy,” Mark says teasingly, unable to resist the fondness that overcomes him. “If only I did not love you so.”

“But you do?” The question is plagued with uncertainty, and so are Lucas’s eyes.

Mark reaches up to bring their lips together once again, hoping that this will be enough. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> i say regency era but i did the bare minimum for historical accuracy. take dance cards, for instance--no proof of them in the era, but they were cute and useful and a contemporary, so why not? the places are also not real, i just be using any old british surname for them.
> 
> i am realizing now that literally nobody cares so thank you for reading <3
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/1999LlNE) • [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/yuchi)


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